96poems/well

The girl in the well
is singing.

Get out of there,
get out of there,
get out of there,
why don’t you
get out of there,
they shout down.

I don’t know how to walk
up walls she calls out.
Do you? Can you tell me how?

Things are silent again.
The girl in the well
remembers this
well,
remembers this
well,
remembers this
well,
remembers this
well.

They throw down bricks
and rods and rebar bits,
aluminum tabs and plastic
beer can rings.

Come out they shout.
Who are you?

There is no water in the well,
she need not fear drowning,
nor can she drink.

The girl in the well
can’t recall how she got there,
it is all she’s ever known,
the only place she can remember
being.

As she gets older
the girl in the well
gets arthritis,
a damp disease,
an ailment born of
restricted motion.
For a hundred and fifty years
the girl in the well has sat
crouched against the ground,
her chin on her knees,
with only her arms free to move.
She has dug circles around herself
and filled them up again.
She has dug circles around herself
and filled them up again.
She has dug circles around herself
and filled them up again,
knowing finally that there is
no escape by going down and in.

Her fingers grow sharp as needles,
the girl in the well is knitting
with only her hands as tools.
She has time on her hands,
she has dirt on hands,
she has the earth on hands.
She has the ground beneath her on her hands,
she thinks she may knit her way out.

2/16/96